We Are Stardust...We Are Golden

Ingrid Bergman. That's who I want to be. Given a lasting contract to assure continual stardom through her "formative years." Absolute pure beauty, clear talent...and the tears? Well, forget about it! She made it all look so easy. But then, she did have three husbands to juggle, so you gotta know that in itself makes her a great actress!

I'm sitting here watching Crosby, Stills and Nash and Bonnie Raitt too, belt it out...you know, The Rocking Roll Hall of Fame's gathering at MSG. Last night, Bono and Sprinsteen and Mick Jagger, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel and a host of other voices that I could listen to forever. Tonight, we've been switching back and forth between Straight, No Chaser an acapella group and the rock show. And I'm actually amazed at how well preserved their talent is after all these years. I mean, c'mon...thirty years on the road and they can still harmonize, and eek out their emotions on the stage. Then walks out one of my all time faves...Jackson Browne, the greatest storyteller of all. Controversial, yes. But man the voice and the craft! He's got it all. "When the morning light comes streamin' in...I'll get up and do it again." Well, now that's a message that sure didn't come easily to me. I was far too busy struggling for the legal tender he sings about. But now? Well, I still struggle, but I've got it. The message is always in the music. Their message endures and so do they.

So, tomorrow morning, I'll be Ingrid, Bono, Jackson, Sting and Bruce and Bonnie too. I'll be focused and true. I'll get up and do it again, because it's what I do. Writing, like music, art and acting takes time, and no matter how long it took to get me there, I'm golden.

Daydream Believer

I woke up this morning to the most hopeful news! In fact, for me it was a validation of all the years I've spent out in space during my waking hours! I am after all, a hopeless daydreamer. It's something I can't help, and perhaps I shouldn't even try.

The NY Times posted an article relating the true nature of dreams to the daily functioning of the human brain. By day, in my most alert state...my brain apparently represses my dreaming. By night, my brain warms down, and the dream state takes over. Shaking loose all those electronic impulses? I guess. Freud and Jung would be crushed. Will their theories become the stuff of fiction like my daydreams?

I remember and always come back to Stephen King's reference to how well the brain is trained to be ready to dream at the same time each night. (This pearl came in his book, On Writing, a Memoir of the Craft.) Current neuroscience is apparently pointing to this idea too. My brain's on a schedule, that's all. Makes me wonder, though...about all those wonderful kids I have in my class who are a bit disorganized and at times out there somewhere in space. In today's world, it is said that they have 'executive functioning issues.' To my crazy mind, they're probably the next brood of artists, musicians, writers, and crafts people that will fill our eyes and our ears with wonderful sounds and gorgeous imagery someday. They're the doodlers, the drifters, the beautiful dreamers too! In my perfect world? Schools will one day validate them all, allowing large expanses of time for the pure pursuit of a dream.

When the Darkness Comes

Simply inspirational? Well, I'm not so sure. When the darkness strikes, as it has this week, it suddenly turns the world on its end. I got home today and hit my chair instead of putting on my running shoes, as I promised myself I would. So...tomorrow, all right?! Jeesh.

I found myself ready for a nap, but fought the feeling. And now? It's 9:02 and I'm ready to put on my pjs. And tomorrow morning? My candlelight writing? Well, the darn sun starts coming up and it's got me so confused. I guess I should be grateful. But instead, I'm hatching a getaway plan. Could I live in the southern hemisphere with my cousins November to March and here in New England the rest of the year? What do they call those people? Snowbirds? I'll become a migratory old bird.

I sat in an inservice today and instead of keeping my focus, I was distracted. I couldn't help it. I'm disoriented, alright? Flocks of geese were hanging in mid-air, floating and gathering and then floating some more. There's a tree out back at school that's been half-red and half-green for two full weeks now. And that so-called last rose I posted about over a month ago? Well...that last rose lasted until this past weekend and now there are four more!

Personally, I'd be happy if it just stayed the way it was...dark in the AM with a longer day at the end. But, I guess I'll have to leave that up to the universe...and just do my part to make it through to the end! (Could we just hold off on the snow?!)

An Omen on the Doorstep

My friend, Laura, sent me an message today...writing--it's a zen thing, or something like that...let it come to you! Well, here's what came to me today. And I am not lying.

A dead bird. Specifically, a mourning dove with one eye half-open...rigor mortis had set in, and she was belly up right smack in the middle of the doorstep to my oh-so-sacred writing cottage.

I went all flustered back into the house, and my husband (you know, the guy in the wheel-chair) says, "Well, I'd love to help, but..." And there was that smug, guy smile on his face. URGH. So I went to get my shovel. It wasn't until I returned, that I noticed the half-open eyelid. That was my undoing. I slid the shovel underneath the damn thing, cursed every coyote and red fox that I know living around my woods and sent the mourning dove flying (well, not so much) into the forest below...well, that was my hope. Instead, I did my lousy freaked-out hurling. Thought it would go out and down, well you know where this is going. It went up and came down instead!! At first, I thought it was gonna come down on me. I let out such a yell, that I'm certain the whole world of creatures heard me and ran in the other direction!

After that, I grew more determined. I was not going to read into that omen. Was it an omen? No, I told myself! I was so done with that trauma. I'm going to block it out, and just go in there and get with that zen thing again. But then...I opened the door, sat down at my desk, and the fire alarm's high-pitched, very intermittent squeal sounded. You know the one. It usually goes off in the middle of the night and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? I was not going to listen to that all afternoon! I jumped up onto the couch and dangled from its back, ripped the stupid thing off the ceiling and tossed it inside the house. Remember that helpful, smug wheelchair guy inside? Well...I stuck it on him! For once, I got the last laugh.

Now...barring any other unforeseen disasters...the rubber meets the road. Why does it have to be so hard? Sing it to me, oh zen master...and make it loud!

The Last Rose of Summer

I had a funny feeling that this would be the last one. I stopped, leaned over and sucked in that sweet scent. Everything that was once summer was packed inside that bloom: rose sherbert, perfect!

I hate when summer ends, fall comes and spoils all the fun! Who wants to get back into a schedule, who cares to go to bed as early as my kids' grandmother? And the beach...the sound of the waves crashing on the shore? There'll be no more of that.

But then, Autumn settles back in and I hear that lone screech owl in the trees at night. The harvest moon shines through my diamond window; there's a tinge of orange on the tips of the maples and a cool breeze wafting through my window. This weekend I had my first taste of fresh apple crisp and I thought about lighting a fire in the fireplace. But...I didn't. It was summer still.

But now? Well, now I'm bowing down to reality, giving up my denial and getting ready for those sweet Indian summer days. There's nothing like a long ride on a river with blazing colors in the background to put me in the mood for fall. I'll savor the warmth, spend a little more time outdoors and live in the moment forgetting, as best I can, that awful season that follows...that which will remain unnamed for now!

Hats Off to the Kennedy Family

My father came to America with the shirt on his back and five bucks in his pocket, or so he'd tell you. But to me, he came with much more than that. He came with great hope and the dream of a new tomorrow. My father's childhood was lived in post-famine Ireland...a time where the few left swallowed the grief and images of the past and got on with the business of living life for the generations to follow. Trouble was, there was never enough. So my father, like many others, left Ireland, but he never forgot her.

Today, the Kennedys come together again in a very public way to grieve the loss of one of their own, Senator Ted Kennedy. As a child, my father would've told you that we, the Murphys, were a member of that tribe! At times, we thought him to be somewhat delusional, but we humored him. On our living room wall hung a portrait of Jack and Jackie, over our door, hung a golden horseshoe wrapped around a small carving of Jack Kennedy, and on our coffee table, lay a Kennedy tribute ashtray.

Were we fanatics? Well Dad was, that's for sure! But now I understand. My father never lived to see the full measure of the Kennedy legacy but luckily, I have.

Over the years, the mere mention of the Kennedy name hearkens me back to Jack Kennedy's call to service, to Bobby Kennedy's valiance and to Ted's longstanding fortitude and commitment to his family's values and to those of the many more who came to America from Ireland. They knew what hardship was and they never turned their back on it. Ted Kennedy's affiliation with the poor of spirit is something that we of Irish heritage feel at the cellular level. That is why hostility lingered for so long on its shores. But the Kennedy tribe rose up and came here, rose in their social standing and brought everyone else along with them. My tribe is connected! And although I'm a Murphy/Lynch and clearly not a Kennedy, my tribe is named hope and the actions of that tribe are the good works that we are called upon to perform in our time on earth. We are asked to never cast a shadow on those less fortunate than us. For there are always the less fortunates, my father would say. And when he said that, there was always a sad and distant look in his eye. Now I understand. For even in this land of 'milk and honey,' there are those without healthcare, without a meal on their table and whose legacy has shortchanged them in their educational opportunities.

My father came from the soil, he came as a farmer, he came with nothing. The Kennedys gave him hope for the possibility of greatness. They modeled for him and for me the actions of good work that can help the least of our brethren. Jack Murphy was the least of Ted and Bobby and Jack's brethren. They sailed yachts and enjoyed the spoils of a good life, living with servants as royalty. We sailed in our Ford automobiles and were called to service for others of greater means. But one thing is for certain...in heaven, Murphys and Kennedys alike have many a great tale to tell! And of course, there's quite a feast to be had! My thanks this day to Jack and Bobby and especially Ted who was clearly not a perfect man, but who took on the work of three men in his short time here on earth!

A Walk Along the Shore

Clouds swirl,

flags unfurl,

waves roll

and uncurl,

a carpet

of water unfolds:

Small scallop shells,

a bit of seaweed,

a mermaid's purse,

a single crab's leg too.

A bounty...

from the bottom

of the sea

to me!